What A Catch
by narrowcheekbones
Summary: Dean is stuck in a boring, repetitious lifestyle, engaged to a woman he's barely interested in. Castiel is trapped by survivor's guilt and the "beach" he sporadically visits. Each hoping to be saved from their monotonous life they indulge in a passionate affair that inevitably leads to obligatory lies, unwanted truths, and an obscure future.
1. Chapter 1

The morning was served sunny-side up with a side of transparent clouds and a sky that mocked Dean with its inevitable giveaway. You're boring Dean, they sang. You're alone in a full house and you're just so _boring._

He was careful when pushing himself out of bed to avoid waking Lisa, the girl he found himself sleeping _by _every night, but never _with_. He wasn't sure if he loved her still, or if the last time he said those forbidden words meaningfully accounted for the times he said it thereafter, when its luster dulled.

The coffee mug with _World's Greatest Step-Dad _and the coffee it held were old and bland. He drained the black liquid into the sink and checked the dishwasher. It was full with clean dishes, so he set the mug on the counter and went outside to get the newspaper.

And so a day in the life of Dean Winchester begins.

The bus rocked along the bumpy, old, patched road. It was the bus that took you to where you wanted, to where you hated, to where you knew, where you didn't. More often than not the bus was used for runaways but Dean was not running away. His truck broke down. He was late for work. His coffee was bland.

The passengers increased with the sunlight and by seven-thirty the bus was packed. But the bus driver kept stopping for passengers and Dean could feel the temperature rising with the body count. The vehicle came to a halt and entered one more passenger – the one that made Dean look twice. Made him see. The man walked slowly, making intense eye contact with everyone he passed, leaving them stiff and either awestruck or perplexed. He considered Dean before taking the seat next to him.

The man turned, his well-worn trench coat brushing against Dean's bare arm, and in a voice much deeper and raspier than assumed, "Hello, Dean."

* * *

Mastering the art of utter acceptance of your life is difficult. You sign the contract saying _yeah, okay, I'll be content_ and then you get slapped in the face with clauses and subclauses and _subtext_, the worst kind, because those are implied and implications should not be legal.

But being content he was, and the little clauses he did not mind, and the only issue he had was the buzzing of the alarm clock. He knew how to reset it, for it to go off at five in the morning, but he did not know how to change it to seven in the morning, or to turn it off completely. So he did as he always did. He reset the alarm clock.

His usual routine consisted of – if he even slept – waking up at four-thirty, sometimes four, in the morning and waiting for the buzzing. It was loud and akin to the wings of a horsefly. These he thought of constantly – the little clauses and subclauses and subtext. The horsefly flew away with the touch of a button and he began his day.

There was a time when he did not need a contract to be content with his life. This was a story in a book he misplaced after something happened. What happened, his recollection gone, long forgotten within the pages of the mislaid book, along with other things, like alarm clock manuals.

The world did not truly wake up until around six-thirty, seven, which so rationally explained his want for the horsefly to arrive at seven, not five. He would never sleep in so late but he yearned for the horsefly to arrive at seven. One day, not today. Not tomorrow. Perhaps next week.

He fetched a bowl out of his cupboard, setting it on the table and watching it intently for twenty minutes. He had hunger but not want. Eventually he would have to eat, one day, but not today. He put the bowl back in the cupboard, like he did everyday, thinking about subtext and horseflies. He shrugged into his dirty trench coat and left the house unlocked, the lights off.

He waited at the bus stop. He didn't frequent the bus, as it wasn't his favorite form of public transportation, but who even favors it? The screech of the brakes, the slight rush of air as the doors pulled open, and he entered. It was packed uncomfortably, people shoulder-to-shoulder with people they didn't know. He eyed them all, making small nods, until he spotted the man sitting alone.

He was so odd, his green eyes looking up twice, his name tag with the words _Dean_, his face flush.

He took a seat next to the man, taking in those eyes and those freckles and the smell of coffee. He turned, his arm accidentally brushing against the other's, and greeted, "Hello, Dean."


	2. Chapter 2

The walls were thin within the apartments and tenants' minds. Dean couldn't remember how he got there; his mind malfunctioned and now, walking through the halls, his mind was restoring the browser history. He had offered coffee. Lisa's was so bland. This man was enchanting. His name was Castiel. His coffee was promising.

The initial panic wore away, for behind every face there is a story, and the forwardness of this man proposed an interesting one. It had to be penned with the ink wells that were his eyes, not necessarily vibrant or bright, but intense.

"This is it," Castiel said numbly, either embarrassed or neurotic. He pushed the door open to reveal the bare apartment, only a few pieces of furniture to pathetically add personality. Dean did not say anything about the unlocked door or the cobweb in the corner. He trailed Castiel and prayed for decent coffee.

Dean sat at the table, scrambling to think of something to say, focusing his eyes on the newspapers that littered the table but unable to name the jumble of letters as words. Thirty seconds passed but when one waits seconds are tame and do not move as fast as they should because time is inconsiderate and does not break for boring people or mad heartbeats.

"The coffee is …" Castiel pushed a mug towards Dean and sat opposite his visitor, bringing the cup to his lips and taking a sip.

Dean nodded his thanks and took his time bringing the mug to his mouth, watching the host, forming opinions on interior design. The heat seared his tongue but the coffee wasn't bland. He didn't realize how much he actually missed the taste of coffee and he felt miserable that his life was _so boring _that this coffee made his day. A part of his brain told him it was the invitation, but he generally ignored that part of his brain as it made him feel stupid.

"Is it okay?"

"Best coffee I've had in a while," he admitted, taking another sip. "I'm not a coffee expert though."

"Are there such things?" Castiel asked.

Dean stared at him. "Maybe." His shoulders relaxed and he gazed around the tiny kitchen, typical for an apartment, atypical for an apparently single guy. It was small and too clean. Boxes of unopened cereal lined the counter and the floor was free of scuff marks and the refrigerator didn't have fingerprints and it was pristine and Dean couldn't figure if it made him uncomfortable or impressed.

"Are you going to be late for work?"

"Uh -" Dean took another sip. "I'm pretty friendly with the boss, I doubt he'd care," he said. It was a partial lie. He saw Castiel catch it.

"Do you need to call?"

"I'll be fine," he insisted. "What about you?"

"I don't need to call your boss."

Dean chuckled from nerves. "No, no, are you going to be late for work?"

"I am not employed." He licked his top lip and held the cup close to his chest. "Say something interesting."

"What?"

"Say something interesting," he repeated with enunciation. "You looked interesting on the bus. Prove it."

Dean swallowed hard. "I'm supposed to get married."

"When?"

"March – no, April … sometime in the spring, I think. Aren't they usually springtime? Weddings?" He put the mug to his mouth but didn't swallow. He wanted to avoid this subject. Weddings aren't interesting. Weddings are routine. Everyone gets married. Boring people get married. "That wasn't interesting," he verbalized. "Sorry."

"It's okay."

"My mom died when I was four. House fire. My dad was gone a lot after that – he wasn't an alcoholic or anything. He wasn't at bars. Just gone. I was always taking care of Sammy – he's my younger brother. He was six months old when she died. He wants to be a lawyer. I'm a mechanic." He cleared his throat. "Interesting enough for you?"

"Yes."

"Good."

"Do you _want_ to get married?"

His first instinct was to say, "yes, of course", but this man with radioactive eyes somehow magnetized his throat and he felt inclined to be completely honest. "I don't know." Honest enough.

"Why not? Marriage is … a covenant, an agreement between two parties. How can you not know?"

"I just don't," Dean spat, swallowing the rest of the coffee. He wanted to say something snarky but either guilt or curiosity pulled the phrases down to his stomach and he squeezed the mug in silence. He didn't even know this man and he didn't know why he was sitting in his under furnished, overly clean apartment. "Say something interesting about you."

"My father was gone a lot, too." He traced Dean's jawline, across his chin, towards his eyes, which were brilliant with their own source of light. Castiel set the cup on the table and noted the array of colors and textures. "Gone a lot is an understatement. I have … many brothers and sisters but communication is … we do not really talk." He stood and entered the kitchen with his cup and Dean's mug. "Did you want more?"

"No thanks."

Castiel placed them in the dishwasher after checking the contents. He sighed as he made his way back to the table, watching Dean, watching the cobweb in the corner, and hoping the coffee wasn't too bad and he wasn't screwing up whatever _this _was.

The more he studied Dean the more pages from his long forgotten book appeared. He felt the rustling of pages and the feeling of a pen in his hand. He closed his eyes and muttered, "I was supposed to get married once."

"What's that?"

"Nothing," he said, eyes still closed, book still open. The ink dried and merged with the pages that were stained from the coffee he offered Dean and it was lost under the seat in the bus. "This apartment has inadequate air circulation. Is it alright if I go outside a bit? I think the caffeine is giving me a headache."

"I could use some air too," Dean offered.

"Okay."

The air was heavy and smeared thick in Dean's throat. He noticed how Castiel looked around with awe in his eyes; even at mundane things. He wanted to ask why he found these things so beautiful. He would next time.

_Next time._ Like he was going to be invited over again.

"The thing is," Castiel said after a few minutes in the sunshine, "because there was no one to look after us, we looked after each other. When one grows to be old, they grow to care less. It is very uncommon for one to grow to care more." His hand brushed against Dean's in an attempt to recapture attention he believed was lost. "Life is too short to care too much. It's too long to care enough."

"Life is too short to be boring," Dean added. "But somehow boring lives manage to last a long time."

"You believe you are boring?"

Dean shrugged and looked into Castiel's eyes, his breath hitched in his lungs. "Yeah."

Castiel grinned. "Me too."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Trigger warning – self-harm and detailed explanation of a suicide attempt**

* * *

Dean opened his eyes.

He moved Lisa's hand off his waist and dangled his leg off the bed. He got in late and when he did, Lisa had exploded, crying about Ben coming home by himself, having walked the whole way, and she wanted to know why he was so late and what in the world he was thinking. He lied and said he was working on the truck. She huffed and pointed out he was awfully clean for working on the truck. He shrugged.

He did not sleep. He closed his eyes but sleep was a rare visitor these days. He stared at the same ceiling he had for God knows how long and whispered, "I'm not supposed to be here." He saw Lisa move out of his peripherals. He closed his eyes again.

Dean Winchester. A man who is too afraid to leave and lets the sky decide his fate. There was a time when he loved Lisa. There was a time when he wanted to be Ben's father. It was so long ago and it lasted for so long. The fire didn't fade out. It ceased. Gone. No wick. No candle. No fire. Just invisible clouds and bland coffee and a broke down truck.

If love was a deciding factor in his relationship he would not be in one. He got out of bed and shut the curtains. He did not want to see the sky today.

He ambled through the kitchen and avoided the coffee maker. There was a slight hint of coffee in the back of his throat and he didn't want to wash it out with the cheap crap Lisa bought. It wasn't her fault. She took no interest coffee.

The newspaper was wedged between the front door and the flowerpot. He sat on the deck and flipped through the paper, getting ink smudges on his thumbs. He flipped to the comics. He didn't feel like reading. He folded it up and placed it on his lap. The awning hid the sky but a sliver of blue lined the horizon and it all felt so unfair. He felt guilt about Lisa and Ben and Cas. Castiel.

His eyes dropped. He rubbed both hands over his face.

"Jesus Christ. God."

He had kissed Castiel and Castiel had kissed him back.

* * *

Castiel pulled the bowl out of the cupboard and set it on the table to prepare for the daily stare down. When he passed the cereal boxes he swallowed a sob. He could hear the waves in the distance and the sea foam dampened his shoes and bubbles burst. The beach was deserted.

He clasped his fingers together and awkwardly began praying. "Father. Thank you for this … bowl." His eyelashes were wet. "And Dean. Amen." He kept his eyes on the bowl. There were no seagulls. He was finding pages. He didn't like it when he found pages. The book was gone for a reason. Page ten of chapter fifteen made no sense to him. Seagulls.

The horsefly flew around his room before he pushed the button. The bowl kept its opinions to itself when he set it in the cupboard. The ocean was alive before he stepped on the tiny rocks. The book was mint before he tore the pages out and threw them in the salty water.

After the allotted time he scooped the bowl into his hands and set it back in the cupboard. He opened the drawer near the stove and pulled out a screwdriver and a box cutter. He slowly unscrewed the box cutter into two separate parts and pulled out a razor. He put the razor in his pocket, reattached the box cutter, and put the items into the drawer.

He entered the bathroom and sat in the bathtub. He rolled up the sleeves on his trench coat and his shirt and took the razor out of his pocket. He turned his wrist up and pressed the razor against it but didn't move. He sat in this position for a couple of minutes, seeing how compromising a situation he put himself in. He kicked the faucet with his shoe and cold water poured from the shower head, soaking his hair and his clothes and the razor glistened, daring him to push harder, or move just an inch, because the little red lines that the razor can produce are artistic and even he had to admit the little sting felt nice.

He whistled as the water beat down on the tub and he found more pages. The book was under the bus seat and the pages were gripped in his hands, stained brown with coffee and smudged with salt water. He didn't know the lyrics but he kept the tune going and pushed the piece of metal harder and tasted copper.

"Thank you for making me a coward," he shouted, kicking the faucet once more to turn the shower off. He leaned back and submerged himself in the half-filled tub, unable to drain due to the position in he was in. He closed his eyes and dunked his head under.

God is dead, he thought. God is dead and He made me a coward.

He took it out on his wrist.

* * *

He rapped on the door, using the edge of his knuckles. He had a feeling the door was left unlocked but he wasn't going to barge in.

He heard sloshing and was slightly confused, but brought his hand down and waited. The door opened a crack. When Castiel saw who was on the other side, he opened the door more fully, propping it open with his foot. "Hi, Dean."

Dean stared at the man, fully dressed and soaking wet. "Hey, Cas." He looked down at his hand and saw a red stream. "You okay there?"

He pulled his hand into the sleeve. "Do you need something?"

Dean was still concerned, but asked, "Can I come in?"

Castiel thought for a minute. He stepped out of the way and said, "Watch the puddles."

"Speaking of," Dean took a seat by the table and looked him over. "Why are you wet?"

He stared at him incredulously. "I was in the shower. Why else would I be wet?"

Dean noticed his sleeve was turning crimson. "Cas ..."

"What, Dean?"

"Show me your wrist."

Castiel delayed his answer. "No."

Dean stood and the chair fell out from under him. He reached his hand out, keeping it low, and calmly stated, "Castiel. Tell me why you're bleeding."

"My skin was punctured," he said, not exactly answering his question.

"With what, Cas? _How_ did it get punctured?"

Castiel dropped his eyes to his shoes.

"Oh my god, Cas." He grabbed his forearm and pushed his sleeves up. "Oh my _god_, Cas -"

"It's not that bad," he replied, wincing when the fabric brushed over the cuts. "It's – it's not that bad, Dean. Leave it alone. Don't … don't touch me."

"What – Castiel, what the hell? What do you think you're doing to yourself?"

"The same thing that I have been doing, Dean," he spat, injecting an ounce of venom. "The whole thing is highly irrational and – and it doesn't solve anything, but com – compulsory pain – stop touching it – when I know when it will – Dean, please – hurt takes my mind off w-when I don't know."

"Don't know what, Cas? Where are your bandages? How deep did you fucking _go_?" He had pressed his hand over Castiel's wrist, keeping pressure on it, and ushered him to the bathroom. "Are – where are the _fucking goddamn bandages_, Cas?"

Water had pooled near the bathtub where it splashed out. Dean used his left hand to go through the drawers.

"That drawer," Castiel said, pointing with his right hand. He winced when Dean squeezed his wrist, reaching forward. "It's – there's … something in there. I think."

Dean sighed as he pulled out the miniature medical kit, using his teeth to open the plastic latches. He thumbed through the different types of gauze, finding a gauze pad and some rolled gauze. He moved so Castiel could put his hand in the sink.

"This is going to hurt," Dean warned, moving his hand from Castiel's wrist to pop the top off a bottle peroxide. "Was the blade rusty?"

Castiel kept his gaze at his shoes. "No."

"Okay." Dean took Castiel's free hand and poured some of the liquid onto his cuts. Castiel shrank back and squeezed Dean's hand. Dean sniffed and took a spare gauze pad and patted his wrist. Little red lines began to appear again and he took the original gauze pad and pressed it to his wrist and wrapped it with the rolled gauze, keeping it in place with a piece of tape.

He cupped Castiel's face in his hands. "Look at me." Castiel emptied his lungs and looked up at Dean. His pupils were dilated. Sweat beads decorated his forehead.

He instructed curtly, "Don't you ever – _ever_ – do that again." He lowered his voice to above a whisper. "You're beautiful. Please stop." He pulled him close and wrapped his arms over his shoulders. "Promise me, Castiel."

Castiel rested his head on Dean's shoulder and brought his arms around his waist. His voice cracked. "Okay."

"Okay." Dean kissed the top of his head. "Okay, let's – let's get you out of these clothes."

Dean led him to the bedroom, easily locating it in the tiny apartment, and helped him out of his trench coat. He faced the wall when Castiel was changing. He wrung his hands and turned his head when Castiel cleared his throat.

The bed creaked under their weight. Castiel avoided Dean's eyes and apologized. Dean took his arm and kissed the bandage. "Don't be." He groaned a breathless "oh" at all the small, proportional, vertical lines that covered his forearm. He lowered his head and kissed up his arm, touching each scar after. "How long, Cas?"

"I lost count." He mouth filled with cotton. "You count how long you go with doing it," he explained, "then you count how long you go without. Then you stop counting." He touched the rosy patch. "I left the door unlocked. The first time I've ever done it. She woke up in the middle of the night – I was a heavy sleeper, nothing could wake me – and she walked in on them trying to take the television. They stabbed her over a hundred dollar television." He shrugged his shoulders. "I keep the door unlocked in hopes they might come back. They haven't presently. I took the razor out of the box cutter and cut both wrists, straight down the radial artery, and sat in the bathtub. It would have worked. Thin walls – the neighbors heard the water. I was admitted for 'failed suicide attempt'. They put a bracelet on my wrist and told me to sleep. I don't sleep much anymore."

He mustered the courage to make eye contact with Dean. He had gemstones for eyes and he felt a heat growing in his stomach. He was too screwed up for Dean. His arm was riddled with scars and his head was riddled with confusion. He could feel the ocean around him when the ocean was not there. He was too mutilated. He bled too much, too often. His eyes itched and he knew he was going to cry.

"Oh, Cas," Dean muttered. "Stop. I know what you're thinking and you're wrong. You're so fucking wrong." He began kissing his neck, touching his collarbones and tracing the hollow of his neck with his tongue. Castiel put his hand at the nape of Dean's neck and ran his fingers along the little, prickly hairs, his other hand holding onto his thigh.

He pulled Castiel to his feet and leaned him against the wall, placing his leg between his thighs and faltering, his mind pausing, not accustomed to the difference between Lisa's body and Castiel's. Lisa, to the most blind man, was beautiful and soft and skinny and had sex appeal. Cas had more depth. He was radiant and he was knowing and he was naïve, concerned with scars and sleep, his hands in the back pockets of Dean's worn Levi's.

He didn't know what Castiel wanted so he continued necking him, rocking his hips against the other's, muttering phrases and touching his sides. He kissed his eyelids. "Don't cry." He kissed the tip of his nose. "It's done." He kissed his chin. "I'll stay with you, Cas." He kissed the edge of his jaw under his ear and his lips parted and the promises kept flowing as he moved to the outside corners of his eyes and his forehead and his temples and when he was convinced he covered every inch he kissed his lips and a kiss back he received.

Castiel kissed Dean's top lip and opened his mouth, letting Dean track his tongue across his teeth and tongue, his hands incapable of staying in one place, pressing him harder into the wall. Dean grunted and rubbed against Cas. Castiel mimicked the movement. After a minute Dean moaned and Castiel grabbed his upper arm, pushing his face into his shoulder, panting.

Dean took Castiel's hand and kissed his wrist again.


	4. Chapter 4

"Thank you, Dean."

He smiled at Cas, throwing the towel into the wash and checking the floor for wet spots. "No problem," he breathed after confirming the floor was clean. His knuckles brushed against Castiel's. "Forget it. It's good now."

He kissed his forehead and palmed his hair back. "It's good." Dean moved behind him, wrapped his arms around his waist, and kissed his neck. He rushed, "If we do this -"

"I understand the consequences."

He rested his chin on Castiel's shoulder. Hesitantly, "I'm not -"

"I know, Dean." He swallowed hard, attempting to ignore the warm breath on his neck. He lowered his voice. "Neither am I."

Dean nuzzled his neck and kissed his jugular. "Okay." He released his arms and tugged his sleeve. They strolled into the bedroom, fingers loosely entwined, throats burning. As Dean threw his jacket in the hall and pulled off his shirt, Castiel fumbled with the buttons on his, concentration intangible.

"Calm down," Dean soothed, helping him out of his shirt. He kissed his Adam's Apple and trailed down his chest, his lips lightly touching his skin. He dropped to his knees and at once messed with the button on Cas's jeans. "We don't -"

"No."

Dean lightly tugged his denims and pushed Cas onto the bed, slipping off his own in the process. He spit into his right hand and lubricated his shaft, his left hand gripping Castiel's thigh. He pushed in, watching Castiel for any give to his comfort level. He cautiously continued pumping when replied with silence.

Cas finally inhaled. "Dean -"

"Hey, shh," he whispered, laying himself on Cas and resting his cheek on his shoulder blade, bringing his hand up to hold Castiel's arched neck. His breathing was rocky and Dean created a rhythm to his lyrics, thrusting with fervor. First to climax, Cas moaned tastelessly, his voice cracking as its echo bounced off every corner of the room, drowning out Dean's smaller grunts and sharp breaths. After Dean came he kissed Cas's chest, tasting the salty, semi-clear fluid on his abdomen, part of his mind screaming _get the fuck out_, the other part dead from the ecstasy of their orgasms and the taste of his semen.

"Shit," he groaned, sloppily kissing his ribcage, "fucking Christ." His back ached so he pulled out, giving the two parts of his brain enough time to collaborate as he shifted his body closer to Cas. Dean closed his eyes and mouthed, "Jesus fucking Christ."

Castiel took care when he stood and buttoned his jeans. Dean took a breather before rolling off the bed, lazily reaching for his clothes. Cas hobbled into the bathroom and cleaned off his chest with a washrag, avoiding his reflection, for either shame or guilt.

"Cas?"

"Yeah, Dean?"

"You okay?" He adjusted the hem of his shirt and pushed his pockets in. He didn't catch a reply. He closed his eyes and found his brain cluttered. His thoughts were disorganized and it left him disorientated, forcing his insecurities and confusion on others in an attempt to gain leverage. He warily watched as Cas shamefully dabbed at his chest with the rag, disregarding his own gaze, mopping his stomach with oversight. He noticed how his hands trembled and how the bags under his eyes aged him far older than he was. The compact fluorescent light bulbs cast an aureola that enveloped him with luminescent purity and captive freedom.

"I'm sorry," he choked, his hands bulky, his voice lacking, his vocabulary dull.

Castiel kept his eyes on the linoleum. "For what?"

"I – don't know," he stumbled. The meaning in his words were graphite and his vocabulary was an eraser, wiping out his intentions. The words hung like moisture in the air and coated Dean in humidity and humility.

"Then don't be," Castiel mused, exiting the bathroom in search of his shirt. He put his arms through the sleeves and meticulously pulled at the buttons. He tucked it in and shook his hands, evening out his sleeves, releasing the tension in his shoulders. He walked towards Dean and put his hand on his chest. His inability to find comforting words was a fetter and he realized he tip-toed too much. The waves brushed against his bare feet and the sand conformed around them. He guided Dean's face down and pushed his cheek against his. He kept his voice below a whisper and as reassuring as possible. "I don't know why you're apologizing in the first place, Dean." He kissed his ear. "Don't be sorry for things you want or have wanted. If they were important at one point they still hold value now." He kneaded his shoulder, unraveling the thread in his mind, mentally debating the purpose of his well-intended patter. "I – am okay, if that's where your worry lies. If your worries occupy another part of your thoughts, then perhaps you should take a moment to consider them. Guilt eats you. It likes you raw. Shame likes you well-done."

Dean pulled back and searched Castiel's eyes. "I wish my girlfriend was a bitch," he confided, using his fingers to trace the pinstripes on Castiel's shirt. "Then I'd have a reason not to love her."

Castiel grabbed his hands. "Why do you need a reason?"

He looked into Cas's eyes and saw the innocence behind the question. "Because she doesn't deserve this."

"And what's that?"

His bones creaked and his lungs inflated. His teeth clacked together as he failed to form a complete sentence and the cogs in his mind churned. "She needs someone to love her. She's that kind. Always talking, never listening. She tries to get me to love her back. Tries to comfort me so I can comfort her. I'm just not interested."

"Why did you accept my invite for coffee?"

"What?"

"Why did you follow me back to my apartment?"

"I -"

"Think," Cas urged, lightly squeezing his hands. "You don't know me, Dean. How do you know my ethics are unclouded or – or I'm okay?"

"Why'd you invite me?"

Castiel licked his bottom lip. He dropped his hands. "You looked so interesting."

"And you looked so guiltless."

"You were wrong."

"And so were you."

The book began another chapter. This one was erratic, unorganized, and unsympathetic. The man with lapis lazuli for eyes had, in a sense, fallen for the man with peridot eyes, each so contrasting, each so uninterested in their own selves. Castiel wanted to keep this chapter, rip it away from the book, keep it unstained by coffee, unaffected by salt water. These pages were his to keep in any crevice of his mind that could not be flooded by any beverage or body of water or blood from cut wrists. He watched Dean and Dean watched him, each finding any critical information that was missed verbally, their body language the only communication left to decipher.

The downcast air thinned and the shimmery substance of reality stuck to their skin in the form of perspiration. It was hot in the unnaturally clean apartment. Their brains were clouds, floating around the atmosphere, each on a different level. Dean was an altocumulus, with unstable layers, appearing on summer mornings just before thunderstorms, easily leading. Castiel was a cirrus, thin and faint, created by frozen water droplets, pointing in the direction of air movement, easily lead.

Castiel was hyper-sensitive, startled when Dean touched his side. Misunderstandings circled the room and Dean breathed heavily, attracted to the way Cas leaned into his hand and the way his eyes struggled to find a point to rest.

"We're fucked," Dean declared. "We really screwed ourselves with this one."

"We're fucked," Cas agreed, the word leaving a foul taste on his tongue. "We're committed now."

"Are we getting married?"

"More like marred."

"Does it change anything?"

"My self-esteem."

"Who has that anyway?"

Cas put his hand over Dean's. "The unlucky few?"

"Those unlucky motherfuckers."

He was now fully aroused, unnerved by this overwhelming want to touch Castiel, make a repeat of their previous moment, get him out of his clothes; or get him to where he could kiss him, touch him, either/or, all of the above. He ignored the increasing heat in his crotch and asked, "What's the difference between sex and making love?"

"Sex is physical. Love is emotional."

"Why'd we do it?"

"I don't know, Dean. For the love? Are we too unfamiliar with each other to know? Is it important enough to question? Unimportant enough to leave alone? If – it's for love, why do I feel so guilty?"

"Why do you have so much guilt over something so innocent?"

"Why do I have so much guilt at all?"

"Unlucky bastard?"

Castiel shrugged, leaning further into Dean's hand, rubbing his knuckles. "Bastard," he agreed. "What does that make you?"

"Too goddamn conceited to care."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Trigger warning: mentions of self-harm and suicide.**

* * *

"Mr. Winchester?"

Dean ushered Ben towards the door, holding his paper bag lunch in one hand and his patience in the other. He adjusted the cell phone, balanced on his shoulder, and inquired, "Yeah, who's this?"

"This is Dr. Milano -"

"Hey, I'm really sorry, but can I call you back?"

"Sir -"

"Listen, I have to take my fiancee's kid to school. The bus leaves soon and we're real busy -"

"I'm -"

"C'mon lady. We're late and -"

"Please, sir, this is urgent."

Dean rolled his eyes, moved the phone to his other ear, and told Ben to head out.

"Mom will be so pissed."

"Ben, please. Don't run off with any strange men and you'll be fine."

"O-kay," he dragged, taking the bag from Dean. "If I die, it's on you."

He waved his hand and they exchanged goodbyes. When the door shut and Ben was on his way, Dean turned from the window and said, "Alright. What is this? Business call?"

"Mr. Winchester, this -"

"Dean."

The voice on the other end sighed, impatience audible. "Dean, this is Dr. Milano from the county hospital and we're calling to inform you that your friend was admitted last night."

Panic overflowed and circulated throughout his body and, though he consciously knew the answer, he preceded to ask, "W-what friend?"

"Cas -"

"Oh god," he gasped. The blood drained from his face and filled his boots and he didn't know if he was lightheaded or headless.

"Sir?"

"Wh-what happened?"

The voice delayed, unsure how to continue. "Failed suicide, sir." He dropped to his knees and the voice resounded in his head in an endless loop; a disembodied voice with no former knowledge of their relationship, reading from a file, sounding both empathetic and sympathetic.

"Are you still there, sir?"

"Ye – yeah, I'm still here. I'm still … oh, Jesus Christ, is – is he – ?"

"He's … recovering, sir."

"Can I – come in – ?"

"Of course," she said, surprised.

"Is now – ?"

"Of course."

Dean pressed the end button and rushed out the door, cursing himself for not fixing the truck and not being there for Cas when he should have.

* * *

Dean struggled to make it through the doors. He stumbled to the information desk and threw his fists down, startling the receptionist.

"I – I got a call from Dr. Mi … Milano?"

"Okay, sir, can I get your name?"

"No, I just need to – see someone."

"You still have to sign in, sir. I can call Dr. Milano; she should be available -" she typed something and scanned the computer screen "- yes, she is, but we still have to monitor everyone who comes in and out." She slid a clipboard and handed him a pen with a flower taped to the top. "Name, daytime phone number, and the time," she instructed, pointing to each line. "It won't take more than a minute." She spun on her chair and grabbed the telephone, pressed a few buttons, and said, "Dr. Milano? We have someone asking for you. Mm. Hold on." She turned. "Are you Mr. Winchester?"

"Dean, yeah." He couldn't read the numbers on the clock so he estimated and pushed the clipboard away.

"Thanks." She grabbed it and turned back to the phone. "Yes, it is. Mmhmm. Okay, thank you, Doctor." She returned it to the cradle and, again, turned, saying, "She'll be down in a moment."

Dean leaned against his arm which rested against the desk as he attempted to gain order in his brain and in his legs. The clock was moving too slow to be real and after what could have been five minutes or five hours she rounded the corner and hurriedly said, "He's down this way, Dean."

He followed.

"We would have called earlier, when he came in, but he was in pretty rough shape," she explained, walking fast. "He had taken a utility knife and slit his radial artery, which is -"

"I know – I know."

She regarded him with a puzzled expression. She shook it off with a heavy sigh and added, "This morning he said he wanted his boyfriend and gave us your number."

"Boyfriend?"

She stretched her arm out. "He's at the end of the hall, the last door on the left. You can just walk in." Her arm dropped and swung by her side. "He'll be fine," she reassured when he refused to move. "He'd love to see you."

He shook his head, then nodded. "Right." He took the twenty-seven weary steps to the end of the hall and considered his options before he turned the knob and walked in. There was a wall that cut off half his vision, so he peered around the corner. The bed was adjacent to the right wall and Cas sat on the edge.

"Cas?"

He jerked. He was intoxicated, poisoned by how absolutely terrible Dean looked and how absolutely terrible he felt, pumped full of medication and anxiety. "Dean," he whimpered.

"Christ, Cas," he cried, staggering forward. He reached out and embraced Castiel, who had hid behind his hands. "What – are you okay?" He pulled back and took his arms, heavily bandaged. The blood managed to seep through and paint the bandages pink. His thoughts were a muddled flurry, _what the fuck _and _Jesus fucking Christ _as the core.

"Dean -"

"Shut up. Just … shut – the – _fuck _– up." He rested his forehead against Castiel's. His voice dropped and subsequently asked, "Do you know what happened?" He shut his eyes and bit the inside of his lip. "They … called me. I was going to hang up because Ben was late for school and I was in a rush to get him on the bus. They said your friend was admitted last night. They said it was a failed suicide, Cas. Was it? Suicide? Not just – cutting, but suicide?"

He forced himself to look at Castiel, whose eyes were drawn closed. He felt the nod.

The room chilled and he frostily remarked, "Really."

"I'm sorry."

"Are you?"

No response.

"Fuck." He stepped off the bed. "Boyfriend?"

"Dean -"

"Shut up," he snapped. "What was I supposed to do? What _am _I supposed to do? Did you want to die? No, don't answer that, because I know the answer. _Failed suicide_. Fuck!" He punched the wall and his knuckles popped, causing Castiel to flinch. "When do you get out?"

"Suicide watch. Two weeks."

"Two – two _weeks_?"

"Yes." His words ran together. "This is not my first admittance as this was not my first attempt. I am under an extended watch."

"Am I allowed to visit?"

"Not after today."

Dean swallowed. "Okay." He glimpsed at Castiel's bandages and his lungs seized up. "A month ago. Remember?"

"I promised."

"You did." His legs carried him to the side of the bed and his arms pulled him to his chest. A broken, crying mess consoling another broken, crying mess. They had nothing in common and it was embarrassing and it was pathetic, but they tried. The judgmental clouds could not say it was worthless. There was nothing written between the lines of the weather-worn book.

"I love you, Dean."

Dean choked back a sob. "I know."

* * *

"Oh, and Cas?"

"Yeah Dean?"

"Lisa and Ben are going out of town. They're leaving soon, actually. Visiting relatives or some shit. Gonna be gone a week."

Castiel sighed heavily and pushed the phone closer to his mouth. His voice husky, he implored, "Is this an invitation, Dean Winchester?"

He detected the hesitation in Dean's voice. "Maybe?"

"Why aren't you accompanying them?"

"I'm working all week. Or – supposed to be."

"Did you lie?"

Again, he was hesitant, but replied, "Ye – oh, hold on a sec." He covered the mouthpiece and exchanged words with Lisa. He came back after a couple of minutes and mumbled, "She thought I was talking to Sam. Sorry."

"Don't apologize."

"God, I can't wait," he breathed.

"It was only two weeks."

"I don't care," he retorted. "Y – she's gone."

Castiel's eyes slid to the other side of the room and his mouth upturned. "Now?"

"Right now."

* * *

Dean threw the door open and eased Castiel in, shutting and locking it behind them. He was too ecstatic and made it too apparent that he awaited his arrival; he clumsily jammed his hands into his pockets and grimaced at his visitor. Cas returned the grin and reached out, gingerly touching his shoulder. "Are you okay, Dean?"

"Yeah," he respired, short-winded. His eyes swallowed the body opposite him and he felt the overpowering want to get him out of his clothes. It wasn't different; he always felt this way and, now, the feeling was of his jeans conforming tight around his crotch.

Cas took noticed and rose-cheeked, murmuring, "Oh, Dean," and glided his hand from his shoulder to his jawline. Dean copied the gesture, bringing his hand from his pocket to Castiel's cheek. He shook his head in disbelief and softly sought, "What do we do?"

"I don't know," Cas answered truthfully. "I do know that … _this _-" he waved his free hand, motioning at Dean then himself "- is something. We know what it is like to suffer with nothing. I am not going to let it happen again. I like what we have." He shrugged his shoulders, heavy from his layers of clothing. He leaned forward and nipped Dean's earlobe. "I like you, Dean, and only you."

Shivers trailed up his spine and his eyes fluttered shut. He liquified when Cas left faint kisses on his neck and bottom lip, leaving Dean to resort to sixth-grade determinations, groping Castiel's sides as his hands quaked and his breath trembled. Cas grinned against the hollow of his neck; Dean's eyes squeezed tighter and his body tingled with fever and he thought, _two motherfucking weeks._

"Can we go?"

"Go where, Dean?"

"I don't know. Oklahoma? Europe? Who fucking cares?" His mouth was dry so he swallowed, pressing his lips together to refrain from shouting. His fingers were clasped around Cas's waist.

"None of those places are convenient," Cas rationalized, dragging his lip from the shoulder to the jawline of his spontaneously overambitious love.

Dean caressed the small of his back, hinting, "How about my bedroom?"

Cas pressed his nose into the crook of his neck and nodded. Their fingers interlaced and Dean led the way to the bedroom, pulling the curtains shut while simultaneously pushing Cas towards the bed. Dean pulled his shirt off effortlessly and instinctively followed with running his hands through his hair, an attempt to stay collected, all while Castiel unbuttoned his shirt lying down. He pulled his arms out of the long sleeves but refused to sit up to toss the shirt off the side. Dean edged towards the bed and bowed, putting his knees on either side of Cas to straddle him.

He gave him several wet, open-mouthed kisses, letting both his tongue and his hands wander. He was overwhelmed by the feel of his body; without thought he started grinding, abdominal muscles clenched tight as his mind fried, destroyed.

"Dean," Cas grunted, "that is – really uncomfortable." He pressed his thumbs against Dean's pelvis. "Please."

Dean croaked apologies and okays, hastily fussing with the button on his jeans. Cas pulled off his denims and Dean's followed, along with the almost-forgotten shirt. Dean rubbed his tongue against his teeth to accumulate enough saliva and, when sufficient, spit into his hand. "I'll go slow," he slurred, spreading the mixture of spit and pre-cum around his erection. "Tell me if it hurts, okay?" He waited for Cas's acknowledgment and after receiving a head nod thrust into him. He relaxed his back muscles and urged Cas to do the same, warning, "You'll get stove up and – and cramped."

Castiel's oxygen intake increased when he complied, falling further into the mattress. He winced when Dean pushed too hard. "It's okay, I'm okay," he reassured, stroking the sides of his head. "Just – two weeks, right?"

Dean breathed sharp and skeptically agreed. "Right." He thrust at a slow pace until it became more comfortable; when it was easier to move, he built speed, feeling the familiar tightening sensation in his groin.

Castiel was always the one to come first and, whether it was an unspoken rule or a mutual agreement or just natural, it was upheld by Dean's resolve. He adored the way Cas's eyebrows would furrow and how he would moan – an echo that saturated the room, loud enough for the neighbors to hear but not loud enough for Dean to appreciate – and the way his fingers dug into his shoulders, breaking skin and breaking hearts.

He called out Dean's name, waves crashing over his body, sand and foam filling the few spots their bodies were not in contact. Translucent cum spilled off his sides onto the comforter, mixing with sea water and sweat. His hips bucked and his fingers dug deeper in a futile attempt for better stability.

Dean lost use of his vocal cords when he came. Dunk headfirst in the boiling oil that was Castiel's orgasm and his own, his eyes glazed over and he choked up, the only sound he was capable of making, and his legs shook violently – not because of how draining an exercise but because _he was finally here._

"Dean?"

"Yeah, Cas?"

He was panting and it was a fucking turn-on, the way he was such a moaner in bed and the way he petted him after. Dean continued thrusting for a little while longer. When he pulled out he began necking him, running one hand over his sticky chest, the other groping his thigh.

"I'm sorry I called you my boyfriend."

"Cas," he chastised, "we've kissed and sucked and touched and made love and had sex and fucked til we were sore, just to do it again the next day and the day after. Boyfriend was all you could manage?"

A moan escaped when Dean licked his collarbone. "Your back is bleeding." He patted Dean's bicep. "We're sweaty."

Dean sat up and straightened, popping his back. "Do you want to take a shower?"

"Sexual?"

"Do you want it to be?"

He motioned for Dean to move, who obeyed by stumbling off the bed and entering the bathroom. He turned the faucet and water streamed from the shower head, pounding against the wall. He helped Castiel, awkwardly trying to keep balance, and followed after.

"Sexual?" he asked again.

"You ask a lot of questions," Dean noted, soaping his chest. "You know that?"

"Perhaps." He ran his hands over Dean's chest and commanded, "Turn. I'll get your back."

"Oh. Sexy."

Cas playfully smacked his arm and rubbed the bar soap over his back in circular motions. He ran his finger over the scratches. The red soap ran down his body and stained the tub. He felt queasy; the familiarity was unnatural.

"You done?"

"Almost." He ran the bar over his chest and hastily cleaned the cum off before handing the soap back to Dean, who placed it on the rack. He took Castiel's left arm and brought the heel of his hand to his lips. The deep cuts were starting to heal but they would never disappear because they were an act of such motherfucking desperateness they decided to take up residence. They would stay as just one more line on his arm, proof of – what? Cowardice, for not being strong enough to deal with the situation? Courage, for being strong enough to let the blade only go _so deep_? If he had intended to make it final, but it wasn't, where did that put him? He kissed his wrist, all the way up to the center of his forearm, where the scar ended, then back down, ending by lightly sucking on each fingertip.

"Would it have made any difference if I – did it differently? Listened better or pulled out earlier? Stopped saying maybe next time and did it when you asked?"

"No," he said bluntly.

"Good."

Dean pressed against Castiel. Castiel pressed against the wall.

"What do you want?"

Cas licked his lips suggestively. "What are you giving?" He pressed his palm against Dean's partial hard-on and kissed the edge of his mouth. He jerked him roughly. Dean mimed.

"Fuck," he uttered, pumping Cas, propping himself with his left hand against the wall. He was too high to care about the irritating tat-tat noises the stream made. He was too high to care the water had turned chilly. He was too high to give a fuck.

And then he was back, shuddering because Castiel was moaning and he was still hard; not because Cas couldn't jack him off properly, but because he was moaning his name and it was too goddamn cold in the shower but Castiel was so goddamn hot. Castiel trembled in a spasm, ejaculating on Dean's stomach and Dean thought he could go mad, unsure if it was sweat or water in his eyes. He licked Castiel's body and shot cum over his upper chest, unable to remember if he was aiming for his stomach, unable to remember if he was aiming at all, remembering Castiel was the one at the controls. They released their grips. Castiel panted into Dean's hair. Dean continued licking his chest, giving special attention to his nipples and ribcage.

They kissed and Castiel sobbed apologies. Dean held him and wondered if they were truly fucked up or simply vindictive, the way they played off each other, genuinely caring, pretending to know how to change. He reached behind him and turned the water off.

"Did you want to wash off again?"

He shook his head.

Dean grabbed a towel, handed it Cas, and grabbed one for himself. They patted the towel over their bodies; it was the least of their concerns – shivering and exhausted, speckled with water and sweat and semen – that they were completely dry.

"Can you walk?"

"I'll – survive."

Dean got out and assisted Cas, who hobbled back to the bedroom, taking his time, leaning on Dean. He apologized once more, adding, "I'm not used to it."

"It's fine, Cas." They crossed the room and Cas collapsed on the bed, straining to sit. Dean reached out and framed his face with his index finger, his amygdala igniting the center of his brain, currents surging through his body, steaming his gray matter and paralyzing his aching muscles. Despite what Castiel had told him, he was not raw or well-done; he was guilt-free and shameless, his heart murmuring beneath his lungs, panic-stricken arteries crawling beneath his skin, not thinking but invaded by thoughts: sex is physical, love is emotional, so much guilt for being guiltless, so much shame for being shame-free, the clouds are wrong Dean Winchester, Castiel thinks you are interesting and you think he is innocent, so white and pure and clean and lovely, especially the way he moans in bed, your name on his tongue, his tongue in your mouth. Not just about the sex and not just about the emptiness. You're a mediocre lover but if that's you at your worst then perhaps you should focus a little less on bland coffee and a little more on the issues at hand. Fourteen days and you're together again for Christ's sake and remember, Dean, listen better and pull out earlier. Take time to get to know him, take time to go down on him. It's not all sexual but, Hell, if that's part of the package then sign me the fuck up.

His eyes refocused and he moved to sit on the edge with Castiel. Laying back, he stretched his arms behind him, watching Cas mimic his movements, turning to face him.

The sand was warm beneath their bodies and Castiel squirmed, sore and impatient. Some days with Dean the text was refined, like an official document, and other days it was a disorganized mess, page after page of incoherent phrases. When they made love, the words were cursive; not the loopy kind – more like rippling waves. When they had sex, the words were printed in a non-boring, empty beach way. When they fucked, the words were scrawled over the page in big, bold letters, outlined and outlined again, colored in and colored around, in the lines and outside the lines, like waves crashing into a cliff, terrified of dying because they are so young and so new, only to realize when they break across the surface, they get pulled back to do it again. He knew he wasn't traditionally welcome and it was immoral for him to be in Dean's bed or in his house, and it was downright wicked for them to touch the way they did. He got enough grief in his apartment, from neighbors stopping to tell him how wormy he was to neighbors preaching the gospel, pointing out what God said about his favored sin, not pointing out what God said about their favorite sins. He got a notice covered in algae that read "Dear Tenant, there has been an increase of complaints being called in about 'the vulgar sounds emitting your room in the form of moans, profanity, and a squeaky mattress'. Please keep in mind there are young children in this building and – while you reserve the right to do such activities in the privacy of your own home – you should hold limits to your visitor's coming overs or accompany them to their house. Thank you." He kept this notice folded in his trench coat, along with a seashell.

Nothing was off-limits in terms of conversation, so when Dean bluntly asked if he had hurt him, he held no right to be offended.

His eyes shut. "Don't."

"Babe."

"It's humiliating, Dean." He hid behind his hands. "I cannot deal with any more self-consciousness or shame and I am not going to ask you to pull out. I'm here, you're here, it's still morning. Do you want to – get dressed, go out and eat? Do something?" There was no response, so Cas offered, "Stay like this?"

Dean leaned in and they kissed. Castiel had a tendency to bring his hand up to the top of Dean's head, grasping at his short hair, and Dean went apeshit the way his palm would drag across his neck and ear, like it was no big deal. Dean was more stationary, cupping Castiel's face. He licked Castiel's lip and Cas obliged, opening his mouth, letting Dean in. He closed his lips around Dean's tongue and sucked. When he released, he nestled into Dean's chest and Dean stroked his back, kissing his hair, a feeling of vacancy inhabiting his chest.

"Dean?"

"Cas?"

"I really … liked the shower."

Dean's eyes closed. "Me too."


	6. Chapter 6

He came out in Dean's navy jeans, clinging loosely to his hips, exposing his strikingly prominent pelvis. His shirt halfway on, he moseyed to the kitchen where Dean bopped around, throwing dishes in the dishwasher, whistling a song almost impossible to whistle to. Castiel ran his hands through his tousled hair and said, "Hey Dean? I need to get some things from my apartment."

"Awesome." Dean threw the rag in the sink and wiped his hands across his thighs. "Finally fixed the truck. I can take you." He turned towards Castiel when his breath anchored to his trachea and his feet anchored to the linoleum. He grinned stupidly and lauded, "You look good."

Cas pressed his lips together to restrain his insistent smile. He sheepishly tugged at the slate v-neck and murmured, "Can we go?"

When Dean passed, he grabbed his hand and led him to the front door. He held it open for Cas and followed out after. He pointed to a tan 1988 F250 Ford on the opposite side of the street. "There it is."

"That's your truck?"

He extracted the keys from his pocket and shrugged nonchalantly. "Gets me places." They crossed the street and got into the cab. Dean put the key in the ignition and let the engine rumble before mustering the nerve to put the truck in gear and pull out, checking the street for passing vehicles or stray pedestrians. When they exited the subdivision, free from any glinting neighbors, he put his hand over Cas's, entangling their fingers. Cas looked out the window and rushed, "Can I spend the night?"

"Stay as long as you want, babe."

"All week?"

"Great."

"Forever?"

Dean beamed. "Even better."

The ashen clouds cast spiteful forlorn over the town but the crisp air in the cab baked a layer of complacency on their skins and they held each others' hands without worry; the town was too caught in their own affairs to notice theirs.

The word struck a match in Dean's mind. He had always found himself being hypocritical in one way or another, but this was something unforgivable even by his standards. He never needed anything from a relationship because it was always so casual, and when he and Lisa had decided to move in together, it was a no-brainer: he needed to find something to _need_. For a fleeting moment he thought he found it. Bland coffee can trick you but the taste of Castiel's lips were much more favorable.

He pulled into a parking spot as close to the entrance as he possible and Cas said, "I'll be right back, okay?"

"I'm not going anywhere."

Castiel gave Dean a quick peck on the cheek and jumped out the truck, running into the building before falling against the door frame, irritated by his inability to just _take it._ He pressed the up arrow on the elevator and waited with bated breath, his heart thumping viciously against his ribcage. The doors opened and ocean water spilled out, soaking the bottom of his pant legs with salt and phytoplankton. He stepped inside, pushed the appropriate number, and leaned on the railing for support. It was still morning and he never realized how head-over-heels he was for Dean.

The doors opened to the long carpeted hallway. He waved at the neighbor and was regarded with a slight vacillating nod of the head. He pushed the door open, unlocked as usual, and rerouted to the bedroom. He hauled out a large suitcase and haphazardly threw in unfolded shirts and pants, negligently disregarding the unspecific items he flung around. He drug the luggage across the wood floor to the linoleum of the bathroom, where he opened the medicine cabinet and added his toothbrush and medicine bottles to the physical baggage. He bent down and zipped the bag, heart heavy from the blood-splattered bathtub and water-stained walls. He stashed regret and annoyance in his emotional baggage.

The pills rattled in their respective vessels and one of the wheels popped on the bag, causing the wheel to spin uncontrollably, making it harder to pull on the tattered carpet. On the ride down, he wanted to cry because the bathtub was still red and the cobweb was gone.

He heaved the dense bag into the truck bed and stoically climbed into the cab. Dean put the truck in reverse, slinging his arm over Castiel's seat, checking for traffic. "Got everything?"

"There is no use in bringing all my possessions, Dean."

"Okay, got what you need?"

"Yes."

Dean pulled out of the parking lot and settled his hand on Castiel's knee after getting on the main street. Cas felt bemusement saturate him and he became wet sand on the coast, either a sandcastle that had washed away or a sandcastle waiting to be built. Maybe both. The cherry light of the stoplight and the sliver of citron light breaking through the clouds shed a contrasting light on Dean's face. Framing his nose, elongating his eyelashes, and exposing his artificially-colored eyes – the same color as the bottle of his favorite beer – Castiel found him daunting and unobtainable on principle alone.

Dean scrunched his nose when the light skipped him. "What did you pack?"

"Only the essential items I needed; my clothes, my medication, my toothbrush." His fingers skimmed Dean's hand and he wriggled around anxiously, water sloshing with every turn.

"Condoms?"

"What for?"

Dean wrung the steering wheel and put too much on the gas pedal when the light changed. "You know," he sputtered, uncharacteristically reluctant to elaborate, "f-for … ah ..."

He palmed Dean's knuckles, abrasive sand between their skin. He had gone so long without touching him; he had forgotten his hands were calloused instead of smooth and that he liked to take things fast. They were both circumstantially supine the last two weeks and Dean's rush was not to be unpredicted.

"If this is cause for concern, I will make finding some priority." He pressed his lips against Dean's hand. "Why do we need them now?"

"It's not you, Cas, I know you're – healthy. Wait, shit, that's not what I meant. I – I mean, I know you're not – or, neither am I, but -"

"Dean?"

"Wh … yeah?"

"You're cute when you're nervous."

"Fuck you, Cas."

"You've got that base covered."

Dean laughed and guided the truck to the side, shifting to park, pulling the key out of the ignition. He sighed heavily, staring out the windshield, misted with fine rain, fogged with sensuality. "It's – raining."

"More of a drizzle, actually."

"Your bag's going to get wet."

"It's not of import. It was cheap, to be honest."

He slipped his hand back over Castiel's knee, eyes joining in wondered admiration, and the sky erupted for them; Dean leaned over the steering wheel and searched the sloe overhead for clarification, but the unexpected downpour shrouded his sight. His hand sailed over Castiel's leg and settled along his inner thigh. "Now it's raining. We should probably get your stuff."

Cas pushed his open his door and stepped onto the soaked blacktop. Dean got out and grabbed the bag out of the truck bed. They stood under the laudatory liquid sunshine and Dean asked, "Should we kiss?"

"Why would we do that?"

"Well – that's the romantic thing to do, right? Kiss in the rain?"

"A bit of a cliché, really."

"Not into that kind of thing?"

"I think you know what I'm into." He rolled his shoulders and pressed against Dean, murmuring, "And I think you know we can't do it outside." He wrapped his index finger around Dean's middle finger and they shuffled across the street, only partially aware of any vehicles or observant neighbors. The bedroom the destination, Dean let the bag dropped from his hand in the entry as Castiel enticed him, gracefully gliding to the backroom. Dean pursued, restless and infatuated with his amaranthine delicacy.

Cas pressed his fingers into Dean's shoulder and brushed his fingers across the back of his neck, respiring laboriously while Dean frisked his chest and obliques. He brought his mouth to Dean's ear and breathed, "No penetration." He nuzzled Dean and let him unfasten the button on his jeans, already having unbuttoned his own.

The rhythmic pattering on the windowpane set the pace, motivating Dean to drum his fingertips across Cas's ribcage and to kiss him without pause, suckling on his nectar-infused lips in the conviction Castiel could save his bleak infinity.

Crawling on top, Dean mounted Cas and grinded him assiduously, rubbing the heads of their cocks together with the aid of his right hand. When the downfall was audible between explicit moans, it diffused serenity in the room. Rain filled every cavity of Castiel's body, trickling from his eyes, masquerading as tears, and Dean swept his tongue across his ear and sat up, pulling back. He fingered the hem of Castiel's shirt and prompted, "Why don't you show me little bit of spine?"

Cas rolled over, pulling his shirt to his shoulders. Dean pressed his tongue to the small of his back and licked his backbone, tracing each vertebrae. He tugged Cas's shirt back over his body and helped him to a sitting position. He kissed him hotly and, panting for air, spat, "Marry me."

"Okay … okay. We'll drive to Minnesota, get a license. I'll marry you, Dean, I will. I'll marry you."

"I can't wait that long, Cas. Marry me now."

He swatted a stray strand of hair out of his eyes and squeezed Dean's bicep, sinking rapidly. He kissed Dean and, lips against his jaw, said, "I'll be your bride. Be my groom."

"You'll be my bride?" The air around them thawed and breathing became painless. He slipped his hands under Castiel's and clutched them snugly.

"Be my groom," he repeated with a gasp. "Vows?"

"No richer-or-poorer bullshit." He took time to form the words and then some to phrase them properly, using precision and care in his speech. "I want to keep you alive, Cas. There are lots of reasons to live, but few save anyone. I want your scars to stay just that – scars. You hold the world in contempt and razor blades in fascination, especially when they're pressed against your wrist. The only thing I want pressed against you is me; I want to get under your skin the way you're under mine – in my thoughts, in my bed. You asked if you could stay forever. I'm telling you yes." He used his thumb to wipe the tears from Castiel's bottom lashes. "You're okay, babe," he whispered, restraining a tremble. "Your – your turn now, okay?"

"No more blood," he choked. "I want to live with you, Dean. I'll be okay and I'll take it. We can drink coffee and we can take showers and we will be okay." He licked his lips and said, "We need, ah, we need rings."

Dean plucked a loose string from the sheets and wound it around Castiel's ring finger. "We'll get real ones." He collected another piece and had Castiel tie it around his finger while he relayed the statement louder. "Babe?"

"Say you love me."

With secured promise he asserted, "I love you."

His lungs were taut from holding his breath and his head was pulsating from the obtrusive positivity. "I know. I just wanted to hear you say it." He bit his bottom lip and, drenched in syrupy delirium and salty prudence, pressed, "Kiss me."

Dean complied, holding Castiel's neck and kissing him zealously. Cas brought his hands over the other's cheeks and palmed over his ears, inhaling Dean's balmy cologne. He listened to the rainy weather and found this chapter to be in disarray, bookmarked with kelp. Dean wrapped his arms around his waist and leaned into his chest; Castiel rested his chin on his head and smoothed his hair with his fingertips, fingernails scuffing behind his ear, over the mastoid, down his neck. He focused intently on the sound of rain breaking on the glass. "Existing is too repetitious."

"That's why we broke the mold."

Castiel clasped his hands at the nape of Dean's neck and grazed his lips over the top of his head. The window overlooked the damp, uninspired neighborhood and accentuated Castiel's disconnection to Dean's life – not because of his destructive habits, but because of his withdrawal from reverie. He was literal and oft pessimistic. You are not allowed to be literal or pessimistic in a subdivision. He verbalized this while thumbing Dean's temple.

"It's a motherfucking _housing development_, Cas. Lisa already had the house, I just moved in." He wriggled his shoulders and pacifically arranged delicate kisses on his lower abdomen, chin rubbing against the brim of the unbuttoned jeans.

That ended their conversation. Dean leveled and sank into the mattress, stretching his arms behind him. Cas seized the opportunity and straddled him, scarcely curving his spine and extending his fingers over Dean's, speculating he was biased, fully aware that that was simply Dean doing what he knew – making people fall in love with no promise of sanctuary with the parting of ways.

"What am I to do?" The sentence was unfortunately phrased, but Dean saw it out of context and inspected Castiel's eyes meticulously. With hairpin lips he said, "Whatever you want, babe."

"You loved Lisa once."

"I did." He watched for any give to Cas's emotion. "Once."

"Am I condemned to the same fate? The one time you loved her – you were happy. You thought you would always be happy, right? But look at you, Dean. Look at us. Am I destined to become a grim affair you once had?"

"I never wanted to marry her. I never wanted to live with her. She asked me to move in and I said yes. She said in order to be the father Ben needs, we need to get married, to provide stability, so I said yes. We never did it. I never bought her a ring and I never set a date. Fuck Cas, I stopped being happy as soon as it got serious." He softened his voice and added, "Loving someone is different than being in love with someone. I'm in love with you."

"Why are we doing this, Dean? What's the point of hurting ourselves?"

"You haven't seen it yet? Look at your wrists and where you are. After hurt comes healing." He pulled his hands from under Castiel's and touched his neck. "It'll take a while, but you'll see it."

Castiel's arms trembled and throbbed, and his voice failed him, responding to Dean's statement with unrelenting, quivering arms and melancholy, melodious rainfall. Dean moved his hands to the sides of Castiel's arms and lulled him with apologetic praise.

They absorbed the water. They kissed and cried until the rain diminished hours later, the sun's halcyon rays long overdue.


	7. Chapter 7

The heavy rain from three days prior had lasting effects in the house; Castiel and Dean spent long hours memorizing the sharp angles of each other's bodies, the most sensitive parts, when they melted at the touch or recoiled, when they felt comfortable or awkward. Being the fourth day, an exceptionally special day because the human heart contains four chambers, Castiel planted four kisses on the back of Dean's neck and four on the top of his shoulder. Being the big spoon – as Dean eloquently explained – he felt obliged to take advantage of his exposed skin and occupy it with his lips or hands.

It was twelve minutes past five o'clock in the morning and there was no horsefly to greet him. This was his third morning in this bed and he did not yearn for but awaited the buzzing. It was his third morning in this bed and he did not wake at four or four-thirty. The first night, Dean kissed his eyelids and said thank you for the coffee. The second night, Dean suggested they consummate their marriage and they did – six times, from eleven at night to two-forty in the morning. The third night, Dean asked if Cas wanted to spoon.

"What do I need with a kitchen utensil?"

"No. Spooning. You've never spooned before?"

"I … don't think so."

"Spooning is when two people – there's the little spoon and there's the big spoon. The big spoon is, uh, basically … like this." He formed cups with his hands and put his left hand into the palm of his right hand. "See? If you're just cuddling, you stay like this and, I don't know, snuggle or whatever. If you're doing _it_, the big spoon is the one who gives it – he's top. Little spoon is bottom."

"Bottom … takes it?"

"Bottom takes it."

Cas analyzed Dean's hands. "I'm sore, Dean, I -"

"Well," Dean sped, abashed. "You can be the – I'll be, I mean, if that's … okay with you." He scratched his hairline and cleared his throat. "Ne -"

Castiel shoved Dean into the bed and threw his leg over Dean's waist, straddling him. He faltered momentarily from Dean's stupefaction, but proceeded to mouth his Adam's apple and palm his chest. His hands traveled up to the trapezius muscles and he cupped Dean's neck. Replaying all of Dean's moves in his mind, he lifted himself up a fraction and rocked his hips back and forth, crotch rolling over the distention in Dean's jeans. He unfastened the button, making intense eye contact, senses heightened due to his arousal. Dean's pupils dilated and his fingers trembled as he unbuttoned Castiel's jeans.

"You're stunning, Dean." He played him by swaying unhurriedly, pressing his hands hard into the mattress to create an imprint where sand rolled down. Dean's eyes were florid, decorated with gold suns and brown trees and a grassy base. His abdominal muscles clenched and he dropped his eyes, unable to concentrate.

Dean ran his fingers through Castiel's hair, already rumpled from the previous night. This fact provoked him and his heartbeat matched Cas's, as did his breathing. Castiel gave him an open-mouthed kiss, tongue lingering on Dean's longer than necessary, shorter than desired. He finally lowered onto Dean completely and grinded because he wasn't entirely sure how to continue. Dean threw his head back and pushed Castiel back a bit, slipping his jeans off as far as possible with Castiel on his shins. Cas got on his knees and pulled them off the rest of the way, accidentally dropping them off the edge of the bed. He continued his original movements, skimming over Dean's boner, hands dangerously close to his neck. "What do you want, Dean? Tell me."

"Take your pants off."

Castiel did, removing any article of clothing below his waist. He spit into his hand and smeared it on his erection, mind drowning in an amphetamine cocktail; a sip of endorphins, a shot of dopamine. Imitating Dean's caution, he kissed his forehead before sinking into him.

"Oh, fuck," Dean gasped, mouth agape. His nostrils flared and he bit down on his tongue, back arching before cascading back onto the mattress. Castiel thrust with care, lowering to his elbows, kissing and licking the spot on Dean's shoulder that sent shivers through both of them. Dean groped Castiel's back and shoulders and Castiel nibbled at his ear, breathing out, "You're so good. You're beautiful, absolutely wonderful, unbelievable, just perfect."

"I'm not," he denied, "I'm really n -" He groaned, nails digging deeper the more Cas did, filling him with misplaced praise and broken peace of mind. "Jesus – Christ!" He hid in the crook of his neck, mouth open, half-kissing, half-moaning. The fire reached a crescendo, hips bucking, listening to Castiel breathe heavily in his ear, feeling cum soak through his shirt and stimulated muscles convulse, high from how gorgeous Castiel looked with his hair and his eyes and his body, innocently vulgar and trying to do it right, do it good, do it adequately, do it prettily. He gripped Castiel's hair and kissed him, restrictive ribcage pulverizing his thrashing heart. Dean was artless and Castiel was a masterpiece and how they ever found each other or why they even gave a damn was a thing of mystery, but not one that needed solving.

Cas rested his forehead against Dean's and it was quiet. It was the first time he was not at the beach; no waves, no sand, no sky. He wasn't writing a chapter and the coffee-scented pages were not there. He was overwhelmed. He shifted his lower body and pulled out, still on top of Dean. Dean kissed the tip of his nose and said, "That … was not spooning."

They finished the night by doing it correctly, Castiel the big spoon and Dean the little spoon, though neither of them particularly cared about the technical terms.

"Babe?"

Castiel placed four more kisses on his shoulder and four more on his neck, giving a total of sixteen kisses, one for each time he could have died from happiness. "Yes, Dean?"

"What time is it?"

"Early."

"How early?"

"Five o'clock early."

"No shit." He shifted to his other side and slung his arm around Castiel's waist, burrowing his face into Castiel's chest. "Wake me when the day starts, okay?"

"Okay."

* * *

Castiel held firm to the belief that the world was not fully awake until seven, just as he believed contracts were a thing of waste. He did not need a document proving he was together with Dean, although the idea of being ceremoniously married to him was appealing. They had their rings, the little pieces of string, and they had their vows, variations of twenty-six letters with different denotations and connotations, depending on their order. He thought of these twenty-six letters constantly and their different arrangements within his book.

"Was it okay? Was I okay?"

Dean shrugged into a green GAP jacket and adjusted the Henley shirt underneath. He felt hot watching Castiel pull off his shirt, stained with semen and sweat. Their bodies and minds had been well-acquainted and it took some orientating each morning to realize he had Castiel to look forward to; to touch, be touched, to love, be loved, to fuck, and as of recently, be fucked. He was pissed at his crude and dull vocabulary. To answer Castiel's question, he grinned, "Fan-fucking-tastic."

Castiel smiled, relieved. The shirt in his hand doubled as a shield, hiding his face behind it. "Good." He sat there for two and a half minutes, counting in his head, pressing the material to his mouth. It had the aroma of Dean's sweat, semen, cologne, and favorite beer, making it to be the most ambrosial thing Castiel ever held. His own shirt was packed tight in his suitcase, which had the zipper broken off the first night, and was now useless in the corner of the room. He had been wearing Dean's clothes and neither minded.

Dean ambled to the side of the bed and took the shirt from Cas, handing him another one. "We're actually getting dressed," he observed. He dropped the shirt and put his hand on Castiel's bare shoulders, chest swelling with reverence. "There are times I think you'll be the death of me, Cas." He used his thumb to trace Castiel's jaw. "Then, there are times I think we're going to last forever because God – dead, alive, dormant – wouldn't taunt the world with something like us. Okay, say we make it in the end. Looking at it legally, we're impossible; the state doesn't recognize us as _us_. Looking at it morally, we're fuckin' abominations. It only makes sense that God would do it, right?"

"We're made from stardust, Dean. Of course it makes sense." Castiel knew it didn't actually make sense, but the blatant nonsense of the conversation didn't require a rational answer. He slipped into the shirt and hoped they really were made of stardust particles because Dean would be a stellar stream, his eyes green nebulae and his freckles star clusters. "Did you have any plans for today?"

"Not really."

Cas nodded once, seeing something beautiful and tragic in the notion Dean would be a fading galaxy.

* * *

The last night, something broke in both of their hearts.

Dean suspected it was Castiel's leaving; he had spent almost a week with his bride and now they would have to part, and how he knew Castiel's stability relied on commitment. He couldn't kiss him assurances in the middle of the night or make him lock the doors before they went to bed, not actually sleeping but getting under the covers, deciding in the moment to take it all the way because the look in Cas's eye gave him a boner and that turned Cas on like a switch.

Castiel suspected it was Dean's staying; he would return to empty bowls and horseflies, tattered carpets and bloody bathtubs. The cobweb had departed and it would be lonely in the too clean apartment. He would tinker with the zipper and open the suitcase, take out the clothes and hang them up, and put the bag back to sit for another however many months until his next trip or vacation. He would keep the door unlocked, turning the apartment into a beacon for Dean.

The stars were luminous in the sky and together they laid in the grass, neighbors holed up in their houses. They held hands, fingers entwined the way they favored, backs damp from the late night dew.

"Show me the constellations you know."

"I don't know any constellations."

"Show me."

He used his free hand to point to the far east. "Do you see those stars over there?"

"Yes."

"Those are going to be our stars. We're going to have a constellation."

"How do you know?"

"Lots of people get their own constellations, Cas. Cassiopeia, Perseus. Even a dog got one."

"If you just decided to get a constellation, then everyone would get one, Dean. It's impossible to have enough room for everyone to get a constellation."

"Ah, but that's the secret. When people die they become dust, because they believe they are from dust. No Heaven, no Hell; just dust. We know differently; we know we're stardust and, when we die, we'll just be going back. That will be our Heaven."

Castiel closed his eyes and mapped out the stars in his mind, paying close attention to the details of their constellation, and only had one question: "Can we sleep out here?"

"Do you like the stars?"

"I do." He opened his eyes and gazed at Dean, an astronomical object packed into a terrestrial body. The nighttime air was perfume and it was the greatest honor sleeping by Dean's side, sleeping with him.

"I'll get a couple blankets; it can get pretty chilly at night." He stood and went into the house, rushing into the bedroom and pulling extra blankets out of the closet, feeling like this was the first time he realized who Castiel was. He was celestial and nothing could convince him otherwise because his eyes are so blue and his heart is so pure. When he got back outside, Castiel had moved to a sitting position and he was examining the sky.

"Do you know Alexander Pope?"

He wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and sat next to him, one already around his. "No."

"How happy is the blameless vestal's lot. The world forgetting, by the world forgot. Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind. Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd." He connected the dots in the sky, momentarily lingering on theirs. "I could give you a breakdown of these four verses, but basically what he's saying is, ignorance is bliss. An innocent woman is a happy woman; she's forgotten about the world and the world has forgotten about her; her mind is unclouded by the memory of her former love, and is in eternal sunshine; her prayer for forgetfulness has been accepted, and she's given up all her wishes, save to forget."

"Forget her love?"

"If worse comes to worse, tell me you'll let go."

"No."

"Dean -"

"I'm not making that promise, Cas. I can't. I've gone through this over in my head dozens of times and I can't – I cannot let you go. I won't do it. You just said, ignorance is bliss. Why does there always have to be a problem? Why do we have to deal with it? I say we just let it do whatever the hell it wants and if that means compromising my life here, then so be it. I'm not ready to lose someone else. Okay?"

"Okay."

They readjusted the blankets, spreading one on the ground to lay on, the other to cover them. Cas huddled close to Dean, wrapping their legs together, coordinating their chest movements. He thought of how wonderful it must be to have someone completely for yourself, not having to sneak away or pray about forgetting them.

The rest of the night was spent looking for themselves in the vast landscape of the universe.


	8. Chapter 8

Emptiness surged through his body like blue lightning, electricity igniting his nervous system and kick staring his cardiovascular system. His skeleton was tired and his lymphatic system did its job, removing interstitial fluid from his tissue. It did not remove his childlike anger or his mother's death.

What Dean wanted in life was Sammy, Castiel, and pie. He was a simple man in a difficult situation, praying to angels despite not being the praying type. He plagiarized his own work and gave credit to somebodies with fame.

Part of him believed Castiel was an angel. No parent in their right mind would purposefully name their child that. "To fall from God". Cas was not fallen; just misassembled. His wings weren't broken, just misfitting. His halo sat like a ring of Saturn on his head, hair ruffled from lovemaking and sex and fucking in the backyard garden. The crushed poppies and daisies and petunias and love-in-a-mists and bleeding hearts had colored his tattered trench coat. Just like the flowers beneath him, he had diversity. He had color. He had beauty. He was just sad.

Three weeks, four weeks, six weeks, eight weeks later, Dean still dreamed of stars and coffee and him; with all the loneliness in the world tucked in that coat, he was ethereal. He was immortal for that fleeting moment when he smiled at something so simple. He was perfect because he didn't believe it. The only thing that mattered to the Earthbound angel of the Lord was Dean, and the only thing that mattered to him was Castiel.

As he slept next to his bride-to-be, he dreamed of his bride. He was pissed that he was all by himself. He wanted to hold him and touch him and take him to Minnesota, get legally wed. He wanted to have kids, a job, a life with him. No truck, no nosey neighbors, no heartache. His dreams made the wait worse. And he waited a very long time.

* * *

The first night was difficult. So was the second night. And the tenth, sixteenth, twentieth. By the thirty-fourth night he became accustomed to the dark hallways and small mattress, so much smaller when you're alone. In his heart, he never had Dean absolved or demoted. Dean was doing his best and, while his love for him was no contest, he had more urgent matters. No calls, no texts, no e-mails. Castiel didn't understand technology anyways. Alarms blared at five. He was still thinking at five-thirty. Still crying at six twenty-two. Still hurting at five in the afternoon.

Day forty-seven proved extremely severe because of his doctor's appointment. How many sexual partners? One. How long ago did you have intercourse? Forty-seven days ago. What's her preferred use of birth control? My boyfriend – sorry, husband – has no use of birth control. Sometimes he'll use a condom, but rarely. Have you been checked for HIV, AIDS, any STDs? No. Has your partner? Yes. Okay, now to your medication …

After exactly two months, Castiel realized Dean wouldn't call or text or e-mail. Maybe he didn't understand technology either. Maybe he reconciled with Lisa. Maybe he grew tired of him. Maybe he forgot.

* * *

Emotions are excuses to become attached. They play tricks on you and make promises of leaving you fulfilled. Broken, bloody, battered, but fulfilled.

He signed a thirty-seven year contract for the deluxe package. At thirty-five years and one day, he said fuck it and canceled it. Now he pays for Dish or DirecTV or something. He had his share of being screwed over and didn't want it anymore. He didn't plan on living past thirty-seven anyways.

Every day he added another stone around the wall he built around his heart. It hadn't beat in a very long time. He had missed Castiel for a very long time. He grew old in their time apart.

The saddest day of the year marked their sixth month anniversary. He wished he could see something beautiful in the tragedy of their separation, but there was nothing left to celebrate. He refused to speak to him. He refused to think about him.

He was a fucking bastard for leaving Castiel in the cold, an angel with too much heart and not enough sense. An angel with grace and wings and outstretched feathers, but the inability to fly. His halo was the gold wedding ring he never gave him. His heart kept him warm at night.

* * *

The thread was aged around his ring finger. The thought of replacing it never crossed his mind because, in the part of his brain that agreed with his heart, it would be like replacing Dean Winchester, and that was one action he would never want to do.

He knew that Dean was only a few minutes drive from his apartment building, but fear courted his heart with a love affair that rivaled theirs. He hated thinking of Dean with Lisa, sharing a bed and a house. He believed in his naïve heart that Dean was going to rescue him, just as he did for him the day on the bus. Six months was impressive. Six strings on the guitar. Dean promised he'd write him a song and he'd play it for him. "You'll love it," he said. "I'll play it for you when it gets dark. I'll play it for you after we do it, okay?" Castiel made the argument that he would be too exhausted to play an instrument, but Dean retorted, "You'll love it so much we'll do it again. I don't mind getting laid twice."

So it was that Castiel was to wait a year before he would hear the promised song.

* * *

"You motherfucking prick."

Dean's outfit had taken an hour to assemble. He did not want to appear lazy or dirty. He did not want to appear fancy or classy. He wanted Castiel to open his door to Dean Winchester. One year ago, they had their impromptu nuptials in this bedroom. The shoes were laced to his feet, just as they should be, and the Henley looked good buttoned. No, unbuttoned, enough to showcase his collarbones; Castiel had difficulty keeping his mouth away from them. He was not going with any intention of fucking him.

Lisa got pissed at Dean for rejecting her dinner proposal. I'm going somewhere, he said. I'm going somewhere. She took Ben to a movie instead – or was it a play? – and they would not be back for an hour – or two? Three? – so she didn't _care _if he was back before them or after them or at the same time as them.

He grabbed his keys, weighted from the extra keychains he must have added sometime over the course of the year, and felt like shit when the rain greeted him like a long-lost friend. The ride was terrible because the cab had not been relieved of Castiel's balm. He refused to allow Lisa and Ben inside; he gave no explanation, just a firm no. He feared Castiel would go if his cologne was masked by Lisa's perfume.

The apartment buildings looked like he remembered. He had taken the long way to work and the ridiculously long way to the market to avoid passing these buildings. The walk from the parking lot to the room was blurry. The knock woke him up.

Castiel's reaction was absurdly more different than he had expected. With a small smile, he propped the door open with his foot and breathed, "Dean." His left hand rested on the door frame and Dean's heart imploded at the piece of thread tied lovingly around his finger. Castiel's eyes widened and he made room for Dean to enter. "It's the same," he noted when Dean looked around. "I didn't change it because I felt it would be good for it to look identical if you came back."

"If I came back?" He scratched the top his head. "Why wouldn't I?"

"A year is a long time, Dean. I never gave up hope, but it slipped."

The coffee was served hot in a ceramic mug. Dean pressed his lips against the cup's and let the warmth infiltrate his body. Castiel looked away, the faint trace of a smile ghosting away. The last time any of them smiled was a math equation. The number of days happy subtracted by the number of days apart, divide by their love for each other. Add three as a constant. Multiply by zero, because they hadn't smiled – not really – at all.

He wanted Castiel to hate him with that fierceness you see in television shows. But today, a good day for dying, Castiel still loved him, with that fierceness you see in television shows. The coffee was still good and the apartment was in great condition.

They both stood, inches apart, but their symbolic hearts were in different infinities. The steam rose between their faces and Dean's fogged manners clouded his filtering system and, a move he'd regret as soon as the words were spoken, admitted, "Lisa and I had sex."

The mug mimicked Castiel's mind, recreating the Big Bang, but no life was born of this collision. His fingers clasped around the edges of his trench coat and faltered, momentarily paralyzed by Dean's revelation, before rushing into the kitchen for a towel or a rag or _something _to clean up the mess.

Dean spouted a string of profanities. "I'm sorry, Cas, I don't -"

"Don't step on the glass, don't cut yourself." He crouched down, knees trembling, physical representation of his metaphorical heart in his bloodied palm. "I got it, it's okay."

"Fuck, Cas, I'm so sorry. I don't know why I said – stop, don't – you're hurting yourself."

"No, you did that Dean." The crimson ceramic found itself in the trash bin. Cas pressed his hands against his white button-down. "Stop apologizing. You wouldn't have said it if you didn't think it would elicit a response. You're getting defensive. This year wore on you -"

"Let me bandage your hand Cas. You shouldn't be ruining your shirt like that." He added, almost as an after thought, "I don't want to talk about this last year."

They cleaned themselves up and took an awkward seat next to each other on his bed.

"Did you stay clean? Keep your razors for your face instead of your wrists?"

"I did." He flicked his wrist outward, exposing the neat lines decorating his arm. "They're all fading. Like my ring." He instinctively drew his hand back. "Like you."

"You think I'm fading?"

"No. I know it. But it's okay, Dean Winchester, because I realized that we're all fading." He pressed his fingertips into Dean's thigh. "You're not fading from me, if that's why you thought I was insinuating."

A potent concoction of relief and confusion infused through Dean's capillaries. "I love you, Cas."

"I never said you didn't."

"I didn't enjoy it. She's not you."

"I understand, Dean."

Castiel hair was grainy and his shoes were soggy and he was literally drowning in a figurative sea. Dean had him hooked and Castiel was all but willing to get off the line. The metallic taste in the back of his throat was a preview of what Dean could offer him, and this was one case where he would not be disappointed.

Half-human, half-angel, he was neither. Dean's sin was forgiven in his presence and he didn't need any fucking god who half-assed _every motherfucking thing_. Castiel was not entirely pure himself, the way his body moved over Dean's under the covers was proof of that, but his naïveté was masked by his timid confidence. Somehow, someway, for some reason, their bodies fit together in a way neither of them had experienced before. With all the salty sea water behind Castiel's eyes, and all the earth behind Dean's, they made the world. They went together like no one has ever seen before.

"Your ring," Castiel sighed. "You still have that?"

"You still have yours." The rain splattered against the wall in tiny bombs. "You're my bride, remember?"

Castiel cupped Dean's face and the tears magnified his vision, Dean's eyes more than he remembered, his cheekbones more than he remembered, his collarbones and thighs; he was so much more than his memory could reconstruct. His lungs exhaled the perfumed air he had held in for so long and the rational move was to press his lips to Dean's neck and let the waves surf through his body.

The bucolic setting promoted appreciation and there was no ventilation for the heavy breaths that heated the bedroom. Their coats were on the ground and they were on each other, Castiel's lilt a product of impatience. Sex was not a panacea but, in this moment, it was pretty fucking close.

It was not an ephemeral dalliance. It wasn't like God, because in Dean's eyes God was a pathetic douchebag who didn't exist and, to Castiel, God was a dead prick who was tired of the shitty planet he made. No, their love was sempiternal; sumptuous, surreptitious, serendipitous, and sexy. Dean's favorite adjective.

Castiel's lips against his hipbone was an infinity of its own, ripples of euphoria-induced felicity sluicing through his arteries and veins and capillaries. There was no control as Cas's hair brushed against Dean's pelvis, kissing the inside of his thighs, his lagniappe for the long absence.

In in a prolonged moment of ineffable rhapsody, Dean let his hands trail through Castiel's unkempt hair; he was a recipient of Castiel's dulcet lips and powered sugar mouth. His honeyed tongue traced over Dean like a paintbrush across a canvas and, in the painter's mind, he saw the offing in the intangible moment before Dean came with mellifluous moans. If he could imbibe on Dean's taste, he would be intoxicated to the point of stupidity.

Castiel straddled the other, clasping their hands together, fingers entwined. The cogs in his mind were stuck and he did not know what he wanted to do. The feeling was evanescent, for Dean lifted his head to kiss Castiel on the tip of his chin.

Castiel rolled off of Dean and rested his head in the crook of his neck. Dean agitated his arm and lazed it over Cas's shoulder.

"What is the most beautiful thing you know of?"

"You're pretty cute."

"Are you flirting with me, Dean Winchester?"

Dean laughed and rubbed his eyes. "Ahh, Cas. Just go with it, babe. Just go with it. But ah – the most beautiful thing I know of?" He licked his top lip. "Music."

"You do like your guitar."

"Ah, fuck." He sat up, carefully moving his arm from behind Castiel's back. "Did I leave that fucker here?"

"The guitar?" Castiel mimicked Dean and nodded towards the closet. "Why?"

Dean slid off the bed, catching his jeans before they fell, and buttoned them as he fetched the instrument. "I promised you a song." He sat on the edge of the bed and fumbled with the strings, attempting to tune by ear to impress Castiel. "Haven't played this fucking thing in a while, sorry."

"Don't apologize."

Dean cleared his throat and strummed, getting a feel for the music. He grinned at Castiel and the lyrics echoed through the apartment, bleeding through the thin walls, filling both musician and audience with ebullience and deep affection.

Castiel's perforated heart was mended with the string around Dean's ring finger. Dean's agonizing guilt was purified by Castiel's innocence. He smiled at Castiel genuinely, mouths forming around the lyrics he had rehearsed so many fucking times.

Needless to say, he got laid.


	9. Chapter 9

He loved the taste of blueberries. Purple-tinted lips would leave bruises on his heart, a permanent impression of absolute devotion.

Some days he'd get the terrifying feeling to stand in front of a train to feel alive, to get the notion that Dean could ever love someone else out of his mind.

The months slipped easily past the weathered pages of his book, leaving ink stains in the form of words. Chapter after chapter of stuttered phrases sorted itself in the back of Castiel's mind as he trudged through the winter slush.

Making his way to the mailbox was a feat all of its own. The cold weather settled in his joints and the solitary body heat didn't do much to relieve the stress. He really needed to contact the landlord.

He thought of that night with Dean often, and never again did he go more than three days without hearing from him, as the bare minimum. The chill from the broken window would be rendered null by the rock of the mattress.

The dogs in the neighborhood would mimic their howls and the thin walls would leave much to be desired, but the little imagination they left in the tenant's minds could never inflict embarrassment upon themselves. In the words of his beloved Winchester, "We don't give a fuck."

His boots were worn and his coat was in desperate need of a wash, a bit of blood around the cuffs. He pulled out the key and strained to hear the tumblers clicking, but to no avail. The box popped open soundlessly. Castiel imitated the quiet and pulled out the envelopes, all but one unimportant.

The last letter, the bottom letter, from one Dean Winchester.

Only semi-conscious of the black ice, Castiel locked the box and made his way back to his apartment, holding the papers under his arm. He was stuck in the old grooves and he kept the door unlocked.

He opened the envelope carefully and pulled the lined paper out with extreme care. Dean wasn't partial to handwritten sentiments and the stressed papers, scratched out and blacked out and erased, were reserved for him alone. He read each word separately, then each line, then finally, each paragraph in its entirety, his heart breaking from blood pressure.

_Castiel,_

_I just got home. It's a really tiring drive from your apartment to my house. Not because it's far, but because it's lonely._

_I don't know why I'm writing this. I'm not good at this writing shit, but I'm doing this for you. We need to get something clear._

_We've been together for a long time. It's the most pathetic thing in the world, you and I. It's so fucking pathetic because I shouldn't have to come up with some stupid story about how I had to work extra hours so Lisa doesn't get more pissed than she already is. It's so fucking pathetic because I shouldn't have to only see you during the night. I shouldn't have to be lying. You shouldn't have to be waiting._

_This is a story I've told you a thousand times, but I want to reiterate because I need you to be sure this is what you want. We've talked about it before, but only with traded words over the course of five minutes._

_Lisa and I are going to get married. Or, we were. Some days Ben calls me Dean. Other days he calls me Dad. Can I live with leaving them?_

_I'm a selfish prick. Of course I can._

_The thing is, Cas: can you live with them? You've been patient and kind. Aside from me being a wrench in the cogs, your life is balanced. You're fine. I'm at work, I'm at your place, then I'm back home, in a different bed with a different person._

_I guess in a way I'm trying to convince you to get out of dodge. Skip out on me, you know? You had a girl once. I saw her obituary. She was fine as hell, Cas. Lisa's fine as hell. I'm sure that this is really fucked up in an even more fucked up way; I thought I was in love. I was never in love._

_Until you._

_God, this is like the script to a chick flick. Basically, Cas, you need to be sure of this. If you're afraid to break it off because of how long we've been together or how much you've invested in us, don't be. It's okay, it really is. There's still time to get out of this situation and live normally._

_I'm the last damn thing you'd want to be with. I'm about to appear very contradictory but it's not my decision. If you leave, I'll hate myself. If you stay, I'll hate myself. Either way, it doesn't end up in my favor – but I'll be really fucking happy if you chose the latter. Don't let me influence you.  
_

_When Lisa and I first got together, I didn't know it'd be serious. I think I was trying to make up for the loss of my mother and my father and my brother. While Sammy isn't gone physically, he's gone emotionally. We're not as close as you'd think, you know? I took care of him while he grew up. I think I became the bad guy along the way; Dad was gone. I was the only one there. He took it out on me. It's not that he hates me, okay? He's smart. Maybe one day he'll figure it out._

_I don't want the same thing for you, Cas. If we don't work out, I don't want you to hate me. If we don't work out, I don't want to hate you. If we don't work out, I don't want you to hate yourself._

_I'm concerned for you. I get scared, because I don't want you to get hospitalized again. I don't want you to hurt yourself again, but I know you're slowly killing yourself by loving me. I'm a fucking disaster. I'm looking for peace of mind and I can't help you find yours. In fact, I think I was hoping you'd help me find mine. You get stuck in a rut eventually._

_I didn't start off wanting to save anybody. I thought if I was good, God would give me my mother back. When I realized the world didn't work that way, I told God to fuck himself. I started praying about a year ago, hoping if God was real, then my prayers would be heard and answered. God's the biggest lie of them all. I don't believe in angels or demons, but I believe in you. It takes a lot to get me to believe in something; you're the only one._

_If you're certain about us, then let me know. If that certainty is it's better that we break, then okay. If that certainty is you want to continue us, then awesome._

_You need more dreams and less reality, Cas baby._

_This is either the ending or the beginning._

_Dean_

* * *

Along with the cover of darkness, nighttime brought a cold front. Dean's teeth chattered noisily outside the coffee shop and his hands were shuddering in his pockets. The time was late o'clock and Lisa was asleep; as far as he was concerned, this was another night she spent going to sleep angry.

Castiel's silhouette made Dean's heart jump and his spine slouch. The other brought a weary hand and awkwardly waved, but Dean just smiled back.

"Want to warm up a bit?"

Cas nodded, chillier than his facade. They entered the oven of a building and took respective seats by a large window, proclaiming the store's name. The warm building heated them considerably and Castiel's flushed cheeks represented his feelings for Dean.

Dean waved the waitress over and ordered for the both of them. The coffee, delicious. Not as delicious as Castiel's, but that goes without saying.

"What's the word?"

"Depends," Castiel said, sipping the liquid. "On what topic?" He rested the cup on the glass tabletop, his hands on his knees. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Do you already know the answer, Dean Winchester? You thought I had a decision in this?"

"It's your vote, Cas. There's really only two options here."

"No, you proposed _your _two options – stay or leave. It's my belief that, yes, there are two options, but they are different than yours." He raised a finger. "Number one option being I stay with you." Another. "Number two option being we stay together. Relationships were never meant to be one-sided, Dean. Whether by design or evolution, that's the way it is." He bit his bottom lip. "So which one is it?"

Dean's tongue was burnt from the coffee and from the honesty. "I like the second one."

* * *

"Jesus – Christ -"

Cas rolled his shoulders, lifting his chin a fraction. "Stop talking."

Dean shut up, fixated on the way Castiel's head bobbed over him. He clasped his hands through his angel's mussy brown hair and imaged himself at an altar, praying, despite his lack of faith. It was Cas he prayed to – an odd kink he developed. Castiel's lips were efflorescent cosmos, blooming at Dean's touch, watered by his smile. Their saliva pollinated each other's mouths and cocks, bleeding eloquence. For the moment, he was taped back together.

Castiel, on his part, viewed his role in these acts as symbolic. It was always top Dean, big spoon. Unbeknownst to Castiel, it wasn't just a sign of trust (as the quotable man assumed), it was also a sign of vulnerability.

And, unbeknownst to Dean, it was a probable sign of apology. He entertained the idea of living with Castiel, but it was stillborn.

Castiel touched him with care, holding Dean as if he were an art piece. Medication pumped through his fragile veins, a last ditch effort to keep together his fragile brain. He kissed, licked, bit carelessly. Emotions flicked in the room like a burning wick. The scent, ambiance. Gratitude. Motherfucking gratitude. The fire set free rays of light and cast a shadow. The shape, wings. The touch, roses. The feel, ecstasy.

Castiel's back popped as he readjusted his spine. He smiled into Dean's Apollo's belt, nose pressed into the slanted angles. He kissed his chest vertically.

"Cas -"

"What?" His lips pressed against his intercostal muscles. Dean's hands still gripped at his hair and Cas reached with his left hand, linking his middle finger with Dean's index.

"Is it fair to say I love you?" Driving trucks wasn't his dream, but having an affair wasn't either. At this point, he couldn't remember if Lisa or Castiel came first. He writhed as his hips were pressed under Castiel's.

"Is it fair I reciprocate?"

"No, but it's really fucking hot."

Castiel pulled his hand back and slid it across Dean's chest. Their lips touched before he stretched back, adjusting himself over Dean. A thin string of spit connected Castiel's hand to his mouth and with an approving glance from Dean, smeared it over Dean's cock.

Dean lazed his fingers on Castiel's hips, incredibly flexible, selfishly his. His head was full of anguish, drowned out by moans and mattresses and matrimony, momentarily postponed as Cas moved expertly and Dean groaned maturely. Sex was one thing, but Cas being a bottom-top was another thing all on its fucking own.

He moved faster and Dean, a knight, seized the opportunity and aided Castiel in the process. He pumped him with his right hand and massaged his side with his left, eyes begging to stay closed.

An epic wave of aphrodisia accompanied his orgasm only after Castiel's. Dean kept the knowledge Castiel was always to come first in the back of his mind and a smashed box of condoms in the back of his pocket. The rubbers were rarely used, long forgotten in the pair of denims splayed on the floor (along with miscellaneous clothing). Opened, from months ago. Unused, from weeks ago. Honestly, they got in the way and they both tested safe, so the design of the restrictive wear was nothing less than absolutely pointless. He could never be close enough to him. All the days and weeks and motherfucking months spent apart tested the limits of both patience and sanity, especially Castiel's, who at this moment panted hotly (mainly sexually) with sweat-tipped hair. Dean acknowledged and released his grip, hand sticky from a mixture of fluids.

Castiel pulled off, faltering a half-second, and pressed his forehead into Dean's pectoral after framing their bodies together. "When the weather gets cold, I think I get sad."

"Why?"

Cas lifted his head and kissed Dean's eyelids. Hushed, "The white looks so heartbroken."

* * *

Winter showers result in snowflakes. They trudged like smitten soldiers.

"People will tell you each snowflake is unique," Dean mused. "But it's a lie. They may look different, but they're all made of the same stuff; water … cold."

"It could be raining." Cas pulled his gloves tighter and slipped his hand under Dean's. "Raindrops are all the same, too. Why do snowflakes get designs?"

Dean's jacket sleeves rubbed against Castiel's trench coat. It was a risk, being so close in public. Dean's bare hand proudly displayed the makeshift ring. He considered two things: kissing his red nose and answering his question.

Finally, "Rain is like tears. Sadness, right? Snow is cold, detached. When it rains, the flowers get watered. Your precious tulips – they grow. The snow gets no such result. They need something to make them beautiful. Common, but beautiful." He paused his musings, letting Cas linger around the slush. "Because of the foliage, they get designs."

The wind nipped at their heels and snow flurries whipped, dove, danced in their eyes. Cas considered how vicious the beauties were and likened them to tigers.

"What do the snowflakes think of their beauty?"

"I don't know, Cas. What do you think?"

He blinked the white constellation away. "They're happy when they melt. Because only then are they like the rain."

Dean nodded his approval. He kissed that red nose and through the slush they trudged, like smitten soldiers.

Despite the hour of the morning, few people loitered. The town was notorious in its disability in keeping to itself. When people got too close, their fingers drifted away. When people were out of sight, their hands were back.

The sea was tepid behind Castiel's eyes and the bus did not run at such an early hour (though the position of the sun indicated a much later hour, due to the weekend scheduling, the bus did not run until a later time). Books, pages, shells, foam. All was alright in the world with new thoughts and new feelings and new ideas.

"Am I bad?"

"No."

"Do you know what I'm talking about?"

"Last night." Dean shrugged, jacket crinkling around his neck. "You're self-conscious, aren't you?"

"Partnered with my anxiety and mild depression."

"Speaking of – ?"

"Yes, Dean." A twinge of annoyance. "The doctors believe I am doing better." Softer.

"How many does that make?"

"Doctor or medication?"

"Whichever. Both."

"My primary then a couple recommended and one for the depression, which aids in the anxiety." He tapped melted snow, droplets splashing his already wet shoes. "They're trying to get me on _another _one, but the side-effects give me pause. I do not think I will take it."

"What's it for?"

"Anxiety. Side-effects are mild depression, low sex drive, suicidal thoughts."

"Shit." Dean squeezed Castiel's hand. "No sex?"

"Priorities," he chastised, smiling. "I _can _have sexual intercourse, but I can't get an erection."

"No boning."

Cas laughed, moving closer to Dean to avoid a puddle. "No boning."

Dean's mind was a sine wave of Sam, snow, suicide, sex. He felt defeated and dismantled, broken down and barred away in a lonesome prison cell. He did not want Castiel to think he was perfect. He did not want Castiel's love to transform him into something other than he was. His first incarnation died with his mother and he lost the other ones along the way. Castiel touched his wrist and Dean scared, jerking his hand back.

"What?" Cas yelped, slipping on a slide of ice. He caught himself and threw Dean a nervous glance, who had stumbled backwards himself in his adverse reaction.

"Sorry – s-sorry." He placed his hand on the small of his back and helped him over the ice patch.

"Did my reiterative alarm you?" Careful step. He reached for the lamppost versus Dean's shoulder. One more careful step. "Don't touch me."

I'm smart, Dean said to himself, don't fuck up yet. He withdrew his hand and allowed Castiel to regain his balance with the aid of the lamppost. Cas pulled at the gloves and stashed them in his pocket, bare hands providing a much better grip. They stood in silence for the better part of a minute, three feet apart, Castiel with the lamppost, Dean with the building. He did not want this to become a Pyrrhic victory. He did not want to apologize, because sorry can only be used so often before it turns to smoke, wafting away like balloons, floating in essence, dying in reality. His voice croaked and he asked, "Do you want to go somewhere with me?"

They drove around in Dean's old truck for a few hours, waiting for the sun and the citizens to retire (due to the earth's tilt, they did not wait long). The location was far; a pit stop, perhaps, to a strikingly different galaxy with more leaves and less lassitude. An old church with languor. He cut the engine and strode to the entrance, the legality of breaking and entering into a cathedral not an issue. He ushered Castiel in, more of a wave than a touch, and closed the doors behind them.

The ceiling caved under stress on the north face of the structure, illuminating a small section of the building. Snow fluttered lifelessly. Dean stretched an arm and unveiled the large space, mysteriously lonely and proportionally bigger on the inside. He led Cas under the hollow and whispered (more out of respect than anything), "Decades of providing sanctuary and worship. All gone. I'm sorry, Cas."

"I could never be mad at you." He leaned on Dean's shoulder, thumbing Dean's palm. "Not forever, I mean. When people die, the world doesn't care. I could go on with my cutting and the atmosphere would not be compromised. My death would not inspire a poet to change the name of his poem."

"Do you still want to die? The doctors say you're getting better, but what would they know? Nothing could change your mind, could it? Not even me?"

"I'm still here."

"For how long?"

"I'm around for as long as you want me."

"I'm selfish. I want you forever."

"Then you won't have to worry."

"You didn't answer my question."

Castiel observed the tall ceilings and wondered how high his soul could reach. Dean's urgency made him nervous because he was not, at this moment, aching for metal. He could quote poems and lyrics, some famous, some his, and he considered making love to him on the floor of the church. His skin was lotion-soaked and his heart was waterlogged. Dean was the center of his mind and the center of his heart and the center of his _everything_, and if the feeling was mutual and could be reciprocated, then he would not have to again worry about cutting with razor blades or drowning in a tub full of soapy water. To say Dean never mattered would make him a liar. To say he was free of those darkly lethal emotional tendencies would make him a fucking liar.

"You can't just go," he said. "You can't just kill yourself."

"Let's get out of here. Let's travel," he panted, out of breath, guiding Dean's hands to his waist.

"Minnesota?"

"No. Warm. Georgia. I've heard they have bees and peaches. The coast, the – the fucking _beach_." The curse was rugged and harsh coming from his tongue. He jarred his hips and curtly suggested, "Let's have sex."

"Now?" Dean croaked, Castiel palming his hard-on. "Baby -"

"Dean." He pushed away. "Now, Winchester."

He ran shaky hands through snow-tipped hair. "Fuck."

Dean dropped to his knees and undid Castiel's jeans, zippers and buttons the obstacle. Castiel struggled to keep from slipping down the wall, boots refusing to find traction. "Isn't this blasphemy?"

"Don't you have a thing for this?"

He pulled Castiel down and they fell backwards, startled by the cheering echo. Dean cupped the other's face and kissed him with reason. He kissed him to make up for the time of night. He kissed him to make up for the cold; frosty rubble chilly against their bodies. He kissed him to apologize for his personality and his habits and his fear of commitment, making him sleep alone for months on end. He kissed him twice, because he loved him.

Layer after layer was peeled off and arranged on the ground to keep them off the concrete. Castiel's teeth chattered and Dean's heart pattered, still worried to hurt him after all this time.

"Don't … have to be gentle."

"I can't hear you."

"Just – just do it."

"You want me to do it? Just do it?"

And so he did, thrusting harder with each turn, white light blinding behind his eyes, nerve endings sending sensors gyrating like his hips. The stale arctic atmosphere amplified his sensitivity, ears throbbing from Castiel's moans, back throbbing from Castiel's fingernails. Raw lungs and warm bodies and big ideas and big mistakes; he cared about Castiel's visible scars and lost sleep over the invisible ones, treating him to images of a beautiful place beyond the pines for the simple price of blood. Heat rose from his crotch and fired freely feelings of fucking felicity.

Castiel stuttered Dean's name and Dean stuttered Castiel's, the latter's back arched in a perfect curve, Dean cradling his neck with his right hand. Castiel held onto Dean's scapula and thought of the freezing frozen lake, tearing torn pages out of his biographical novella, dreamed of loving Dean. His climax came moments before Dean's and his body trembled under the weather, under the influence. His voice hiccuped as Dean lingered, pressing on his stomach, empty, but not hungry; aching, but not sick. When Dean pulled out, he left wet uniform kisses on Castiel's chest and clavicles. Dean got to his knees, chest syrupy with cold, cum, sweat, sea foam. Castiel buried himself beneath the sand, icy despite the sun, lonely despite the people.

Dean squeezed Castiel's hand, knowing he needed convincing. He allowed him one minute.

Ten seconds. Thirty seconds. Forty-five. Sixty.

They stood and they dressed themselves. Dean grinned at Castiel, who struggled with his stuck zipper, and Castiel bit his lip to restrain his own smile. He turned his head, looking through the lacuna. He was terrified of forgetting Dean and terrified of Dean forgetting him. A hollow spot, a cavity, an emptiness where he would have been or could have been or had been, all the places in his head and heart he had touched lovingly and cruelly, one hundred percent of the time leaving him gaping and gasping and gone. To believe he was here, he touched Dean's wrist. Dean reciprocated the touch and palmed his hair back, wonderfully awed by his eyes, relics of some distant Creation. They kissed because they loved each other. They kissed because they could.


End file.
